of gunfire and bullet wounds
by endlessly wandering
Summary: Sometimes, I think he still sees himself there; still in that shitty camp, still under the cold and wet amongst warm bodies, still amongst the dead and the living and unable to tell who was which.
1. chapter 1

of gunfire and bullet wounds

He hates going outside now.

It's the first thing we asked him when he got home: "Wanna go outside and play some football?" That should've been the end of it. He should've said yes, got to his feet, and followed us into the daylight, just before dusk. He should've grinned that same, lighthearted and cheeky grin he always did when we mentioned anything outdoors.

Instead, we all stood there and watched him get so overwhelmed, so panicked, that we immediately regretted it. We watched a shadow of fear, of aggression, of memories cloud his dark brown gaze, and allowed those emotions to twist him so violently, so ravishingly, that all he could do was scream and cry and lash out.

I remember what he looked like when he came home. Hollowed face, sunken cheeks, bloodshot eyes; everything that was described as a prisoner of war had been put on him. I had hoped it was a mask—that once he came home to his friends, his family, the house he grew up in, I thought everything would stop. I thought the memories, the pain, the darkness would stop.

For months, he had nightmares. Ones that would seem to completely transform him from my middle brother, my own flesh and blood, to a stranger sleeping beside my youngest each night. Ones that seemed to stay with him, no matter how much he cried and pounded his head against any sort of object in the room to stop them from taking him over. Ones that would send him falling, reeling, into a pit of flashbacks that never seemed to end.

I see the lashes on his back each night before he goes to sleep. The zig-zagged patterns, crossing and cutting into one another like butter would a knife, make my stomach curl in on itself. I see the way he looks at them; a sense of pride always burns fully behind the flashbacks that rage war inside of his head. Sometimes, I think he still sees himself there; still in that shitty camp, still under the cold and wet amongst warm bodies, still amongst the dead and the living and unable to tell who was which.

He sits in silence for a few moments. Then, with the pain concealed behind a grin and a laugh, he asks, "No pain, no gain, right Dar?"

I grimace at the tone in his voice. So soft, so subtle, so kind despite the anger he has for everything on this Earth. So like himself, despite the complete opposite that has seemed to take him over. Without waiting for me to reply, he turns back to the mirror, and the memories come back into his eyes like a light switch being turned on.

I could get lost in them—lost in the crosses and cuts bruises that dance across his skin like ash—but I force myself to look away. I always do, for I'm afraid he'll catch me staring.


	2. Chapter 2

of gunfire and bullet wounds

There's too many words to describe the war; yet, at the same time, there's not enough.

I remember nothing but pain. Pain from training, from leaving my gang, from getting shot at and being a prisoner. The lashes still burn; the smell of smoke still cakes my mouth—

the pain is still there; lingering, haunting, waiting.

I can still hear them. The gunshots; the roaring of trucks and gunfire; the smell of smoke; everything, anything, and it hurts like hell.

I can still hear them crying. I can hear them crying for their mothers, their siblings, their fathers and to God himself. I hear their whimpers of helplessness, see the death slowly trickle into their eyes until there's nothing left but the eventual pierce of a gunshot wound on the side of their head to make it fade.

It's what they wanted. It's what we all wanted.

I went each day hoping, praying, even begging God to take me; and yet, I knew what was at stake. I knew I was putting myself in deep shit, with the big guy in the sky and my own big guy down on Earth—Darry.

I remember the first time I was beaten. I was starving, almost complete bone, and I had no strength to resist when they came to get me. They didn't need to drag me—I was light enough to where they could pick me up—but even so, the stones bit into my neck and my back like daggers.

I was propped up on my knees against a wooden pole, and one of the enemies spoke to me in his native tongue. In my lack of response, I heard him strike the whip to the ground; I shuddered, to which he laughed and swung.

With each nick, the pain intensified until I couldn't hold my breath any longer. I would cry and curse and let the pain take over me; I had nothing else to do but to be consumed. Broken, bleeding, and absolutely petrified, I was thrown back into my huddle, where I was left again in the quiet and cold.

I see the way Darry and Pony look at me. I listen to them talk when they don't think I'm listening. I can see the worry and hurt inside of them as if a neon sign were blazing it over their heads.

It's sickening, and I wish I would've died alongside all of those innocent men, for then they would only have to watch my body be lowered into a casket than go each day watching me, pitying me, regretting me.

Millions of men got that same treatment. Millions of them died. Millions of my brothers died every day.

But somehow, I got to live. Somehow, I have to make it through the day with their cries in my head and the beatings on my back. Somehow, I have to go on living.

Somehow.


	3. Chapter 3

of gunfire and bullet wounds

I watch him more closely now.

I see the way he does everything; not at all like he used to. He walks timidly, like he's scared we're no longer his family, instead replaced by those that hurt him. He eats faster, as if we're going to take it away and leave him in hunger. He sleeps with the lamp on that's in the corner of the room, as if the darkness is going to come and take him again.

He watches us, too, like we're some sort of animal. Like he has to tiptoe around us in every way, shape, and form. His eyes are grim, settled on us intently, like we're suddenly going to lash out at him. And even though we tell him we're okay, that we're not going to hurt him, that he's _home_ with us and that's all he needs to worry about, nothing phases him.

Nothing, and everything, have phased him into a completely different person.

I remember the night he hit me. It was like yesterday, though almost a year ago.

Darry was usually the one watching him at night––but on this particular one, shortly after he got home, I promised to watch him while Darry went out. He hadn't gone out in a long time, and this was the first time he actually had the ability to. I had to practically shove him out the door and pledge my soul to him in order to make him leave.

It was a normal night, for the most part; I made Soda and myself dinner––though it wasn't much, just some cake––and studied him as he wolfed it down. He took no notice, though, and merely set his plate down on the coffee table in the living room before getting to his feet, looking at me and smiling. "Don't be such a fret," he said, flashing me one of the rare, lopsided grins he'd always worn back before the war. It broke my heart, seeing the way he grit his teeth in order to not frown. "I'm fine, Pone."

 _You're not,_ I wanted to cry. _I know you're not. You know you're not._

I let him go, though, and heard the sounds of him getting ready for bed. That was what Darry wanted me to focus on; Soda getting ready for bed, because he always found a way to be sucked back into the flashbacks. I slowly made my way into the bedroom, leaning against the doorway and watching for any signs of him being forced back.

It always started with his scars; his pride, and also his weakness.

His scars were nothing I'd ever seen before. They danced and frolicked across his skin, mixing with bruises and bumps. The lashes on his back were still red with soreness, and as he went to lift his T-shirt over his head, I heard the steady cracking of his bones as he grunted in pain. He stared at himself in the mirror––at the bruises that kissed his collarbones, at the dark purple splotches that covered his shoulder blades and chest. He raised his arm and rubbed at his neck, and as the back of it was exposed, I saw the soft, red ring of a noose tied around the skin.

I hadn't even realized that I'd gone forward until my fingertip was tracing the line of his spine, felt the air shift as he turned around, and finally the blazing heat of his hand striking my face. I was knocked to the floor, my cheek tingling, Soda gasping in horror at what he'd just done.

"Pony," he said exasperatedly, "Pony, I–I–"

The front door slammed, and Soda immediately dropped down beside me, taking my face in his hands just as Darry stepped through.

It took Darry and me only a moment to look at Soda and see that he was bawling. Pain burned brightly in his eyes from both himself and his actions, and his voice was soft and delicate as he spoke. "Pony, I–I'm sorry..."

"I'm fine," I said, trying to brush him off, "I'm fine, Soda, really."

He looked at Darry, a sob rising in his throat. "I didn't mean to hit him," he pleaded, but there was no anger in Darry's eyes. There was pity, remorse, and sadness, but not anger. "I–I just–"

Darry settled himself beside Soda and took him into his arms. "I know, kiddo," he said, his eyes locking with mine as he held Soda close. His voice slipped as tears silently ran down his face. "I know."

I watch him more closely now, for my sake and for his.


	4. Chapter 4

**this one is shorter than the rest! so very sorry. :c I couldn't find the right words to flow this all together. It didn't come out as I wanted it to when I put it to a doc, but here is some of it.**

of gunfire and bullet wounds

Of all the things I've ever done, falling in love was probably the worst.

I can't describe it––it's one of those feelings you just can't form words about. What could I say about it? It was me and her, her and me. Nothing more, nothing less.

Two prisoners of war––who ever heard of them falling in love?

She's in my nightmares every night, and each time, she's dead. She's dead, gone, ceases to exist, and each time––like a dumb fool––I try and save her. I try and fight for her, knowing good and well they're going to kill her; maim her; rape her until she's nothing but a bleeding body with lines creasing her face from how hard she's crying, resisting, punching...

 _God,_ I plead, _please don't do this. Make them stop. Make them stop..._

And though I cry and curse and fight, they still do everything all over again.

Each night, I wake in a cold sweat, completely numb. I can feel everything that happened––the beatings, the anger, the cries of war and suffering––all over again, and often times I find myself huddled in the corner of the room, where Pony still lays in bed, unaware of what's been through my head.

They know of my nightmares; Darry knows the signs, but I don't dare tell them anything about them. If I do, they'd surely send me somewhere to "get help". They'd lose me again, and I'm not sure if I'd ever come back.

She's constantly in my head; almost like a cancer. But she's a cancer I wouldn't mind having––wouldn't mind dying for.


	5. Chapter 5

**not going to lie: I cried when writing this.**

of gunfire and bullet wounds

He's got one hell of an imagination.

Soda's always been the odd one; out of all them Curtis boys, Soda was the one you could just tell enjoyed everything and anything. He was the one who could always get you laughing, the one who always seemed to smile bigger and brighter than the rest of us––just like his momma.

Maybe that's what attracted me to him. His optimism, much like his mother; his smile, much like his mother's.

Hell, he was his momma's boy, and no one could ever take him away from her. Until that damn car crash, that is; then, everything turned to shit, including Soda himself.

Everyone always thought Pony was the closest to his mom; Darry obviously was his daddy's child. Splitting image, them two were; Soda wasn't ever real close to his dad. He was always around his mom, always bantering her with incessant questions about nonsense. Where his father got a laugh out of most of the things he said, Mrs. Curtis just gave her son––her sweet, precious son––a warm smile and told him stories.

Stories of things that existed only in their little world, and to Soda, I knew that meant everything. So when his world was taken from him––first in losing his mother, then almost losing Ponyboy when he ran away––shook him to his core, and I'll be damned if he's ever gotten over either of those.

He always told her that she was his hero. And by God, did she ever look at him with enough love in the world––maybe even more. She was his everything; where Darry, hardheaded and stubborn like his father, lacked what Soda had with her. Soda had the compassion, the laughter, the brightness in him; everything his mother was, Soda admired and copied.

So when Darry announced that their parents––their one hell of a father and one loving mother––were dead, Soda couldn't hold himself together. I watched his face fall from a straight line to nothing; to absolutely nothing, and it killed me. I felt his pain as if it were my own; my parents couldn't give a damn about me, but seeing Soda in that much agony ripped me to pieces. His parents were practically my own––the whole gang thought of them as their true parents. Nothing in the whole damn world could replace them.

Not one damn thing.

I remember the way he looked at me when we were out on the porch not too long after. It was one of the rare times Soda was caught smoking; trying to forget.

"She's gone," he'd said in the silence.

"I know."

I could practically hear his heart shatter. And as I looked at him, watching his gaze go between trying to hold himself together and completely breaking down, I saw how saddened Soda always had been.

"Ya know, man," I'd said, and his gaze met mine. Tears shone in the light just above his head as I whispered, "It's okay. You can––"

He knew what I was going to say, because he did exactly as I would've instructed:

He came forward, stood before me, and allowed himself to lose it as I took him into my arms.

He's always had one hell of an imagination; that day, though, I think his imagination transformed into black and white, with flecks of color in between all the darkened edges.


	6. Chapter 6

**whatever happens, happens. don't try and change it.**

 **my hands are shaking as I type this. this gets dark; real fast.**

of gunfire and bullet wounds

Every day, I feel like I'm dying.

I wake up every day wishing I was dead. And that's saying something: I haven't want to die my whole life. Not even when I lost my parents––not even when I could've lost Ponyboy. I've never wanted to die; I've always told myself I have to keep on living.

But what's the point now? After all I've seen, all I've done, all I've heard and witness with my own two eyes...

It's not enough. It hasn't ever been enough.

The pain gets worse; the flashbacks come back. Reality has seemed to completely not exist, for I'm constantly fighting between the memories of that God-awful place and keeping myself together. It gets harder every day.

It gets harder to hide it from everyone and everything.

I look in the mirror and I see nothing but a broken human being––probably because I am allowed to considered one, after all that has gone on. But even then, I don't let them see it. I don't let them see the tears that threaten to spill each time I look at my wounds, even though I know they can tell.

They can sense everything now. They can read past my strength now, and I hate it.

Pony and Darry are afraid of me. Steve doesn't come around anymore; my best friend, who had my back through everything––through losing the most important person in my life besides my own brothers––isn't around to help me. He's not around to help _them_.

That's what we all need: someone to listen, someone to keep us grounded, but no one shows up.

And I wish I could I say I don't blame Steve. I wish I could say I don't resent him for not being here, for not helping them when I go insane or whatever. I wish I could say my heart isn't breaking each time I realize he won't answer when I go to call him.

He's not here anymore. It's not like he's dead, because he's not.

It's just he doesn't want to deal with this. With me.

And that, like my mother's death, like almost losing my brother, has made me regret ever existing past that goddamn war.


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry about this update being late! As I say this, I'm doing some algebra homework right now. Figured I would update rather than not, ya know?**

 **Anyways, enjoy!**

of gunfire and bullet wounds

His life is worth everything to me.

I knew that the moment he came home. I knew I would do anything to protect him; to shelter him in ways our parents couldn't.

Watching him now, so closed off and reckless, I don't see the same boy anymore.

The boy who I used to call a brother––my brother––was replaced by a man so cold, so tortured, that I can barely call him anything anymore. I can't see him the same way anymore.

He's not a little boy anymore. He's a strong man; stronger than I'll ever be.

"Darry?"

I don't even need to open my eyes to know it's him. I can feel his gaze pouring into my back; the worry showers off of him like rain. I'm dazed, still half-asleep, but I turn and stare into his soft dark brown gaze, watching as they try and shadow the panic. "What is it, Soda?"

His voice is suddenly soft; barely audible, but the words manage to make sense in my still-drowsy brain. "Pone ain't sleepin' with me in there. I was wondering if I could stay here for the night?"

It's a question he hasn't asked since we were little, back when he'd have those silly nightmares all kids have. But now, the nightmares are much more than that; they haunt him in ways the kiddish ones didn't, have torn him to pieces where the kiddish ones only have him torn at the surface.

He's terrified, ripped at the seams, and is only hanging on by a thread.

And despite the sleep coming back to blur my vision, despite the warmth of my bed, I throw the covers off and stand before him. "Yeah, kid. I'll take the couch; you stay here."

His hand is suddenly pressed against my shirt, stopping me. I look at him, noting the growing panic, and his hand trembles as it rests on my chest as if the contact is scaring him. "I–I can't do that," he says, looking between me and the bed as if debating, "You were here first."

"Doesn't matter. You need sleep more than I do."

"Darry, I–"

"Soda," I say gently, lovingly, "It's fine. I really don't mind." I offer him a small smile, and as if that were the only thing he needed, his hand stops trembling. He studies me for a moment, clearly torn, but murmurs a thank you. The panic dissipates, replaced by gratitude, and if by some miracle––a bit of normalcy.

He practically throws himself on the bed and immediately settles in. The smile on my face grows as I watch him; he's comfortable, and that's all that matters.

From the darkness, I hear him murmur, "Love you, Dar."

I scoff, but move and brush the hair out of his eyes. It's in that moment that I see how clear his eyes are; the clearest they've been since he came home. Maybe this is a start, I think to myself, maybe this is the moment... maybe he's getting better.

Leaning down, I press a kiss to his forehead. "Love you too, little buddy."

But he's already asleep before a tear slips.


	8. Chapter 8

**Happy Mother's Day! :)**

of gunfire and bullet wounds

The house is quiet when I open my eyes.

The room is dark, the sun leaking out of the edges of the dark green curtains. I can't see anything except for the small panels of light that cross over the room, and my body groans in protest as I sit up. My elbow cracks as I reach forward and pull at the string just above my head, allowing the curtains to be drawn back and light to flow into the darkened space.

Almost at once I'm shot back, the sunlight being brighter than I expected. My head hits the floor before my body does, and I roll onto my side, staring underneath the bed. There's nothing there—only a few dust bunnies and old pennies—but it gives me something to focus on.

A low rustling sound comes from the other side of the room. I whirl around, push myself up, and crawl on the floor to the bedroom door, where a piece of paper is taped to the doorknob. My hands shake as I fumble to get it loose, and I nearly rip it in half as I open it.

 _Went to work. Be home around 5._

 _–D_

On the back, a bunch of chicken scratch handwriting follows Darry's neat penmanship.

 _Shithole called. They want your brother back._

 _–TB_

The note drops from my hand, landing silently on the carpeted floor. I hastily get to my feet and, almost as if I'm drunk, stare dumbly around the room, trying to get a grip on reality. The room spins, my head hurts, and I feel like I'm gonna be sick; but I shove it away and open the door.

I shower rather quickly, and despite myself, rummage through our fridge for anything to eat. I grimace as I find nothing; the one time I decide I'm going to eat without Darry forcing me to is the one where we have no food.

Sighing, I trudge back into the bedroom, where I slip into some of Darry's old clothes that no longer fit him. I take a second in the bathroom to look myself over, noticing immediately how taut my body looks; my stomach flat, my build stronger, my face beginning to get a five-o'clock shadow. Who knew war could make you so good looking?

Without a second thought, I grab the keys to the beaten up truck and walk.

* * *

For a long time, I just drive. I have no destination; no motive. I just drive with the windows down and no music blaring. All I have is me, the truck, and silence.

But somehow I end up in the very place I didn't want to go. I knew I would eventually end up here; but not today. It hasn't been on my mind until today, until now as I stare at the DX's faded neon sign with my own two eyes. I mentally kick myself; what the hell am I doing?

And, despite my better judgment, I open the door and step inside.

The familiar smell of gasoline and drugstore leak into my senses, bringing back old memories. It's the same as when I left it, and that makes it feel even more like home.

The same people walk in and out, and I don't even notice the shocked looks they give me as I pass by, stumbling my way through bodies. I don't notice the way my boss looks at me as I mutter a "sorry" as I trip over his foot. I notice nothing but the familiarity of the place.

"Darry? The hell you doin' here?"

The voice both startles and excites me. I turn, whacking my head on the shelf above me, but the sting fades as happiness floods my veins at the sight of him.

He stands lazily, like he always has. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, and his face reads nothing but confusion. He squints as he studies me, trying to figure out who I am, and then I watch as disgust––pure, hot disgust––reigns true in his gaze.

"Oh," he says rather tartly, "It's you."

"Steve," his name seems foreign on my lips. "Steve–"

"Thought you were Darry," he says absentmindedly, his eyes still locked with mine.

"You've no idea––"

"You should go, Soda." My name makes his voice slip just the tiniest bit.

I cock an eyebrow, surprised. "What?"

"I said you should go."

I scoff, dumbfounded. Words flood my brain, mixing and colliding with one another, but not one slips through my mouth.

"It's not safe here," he says, and the silence adds two more words that he won't dare say: _with you_.

I laugh dryly. His eyes flicker with pain like he's just been slapped. Anger smolders within my entire body as I evenly meet his gaze and say, "Like hell it ain't."

With a rough shove to his shoulder, I walk home silently.


	9. Chapter 9

**always thankful for you, Happier. :)**

of gunfire and bullet wounds

He arrives home at half past eleven, completely drunk off his ass.

I've only seen Soda drunk a handful of times, and all of those were unintentional. There was a time where he, Steve, and Two-Bit went out in the middle of the night––without my knowledge––and managed to get so tipsy that Dally showed up at our front door with all three of them in tow. There was a time where Soda snuck out to go visit some broad he was seeing and ended up stumbling into the house at the crack of dawn.

But this one was intentional. I know that from the moment the wave of alcohol mixed with smoke barges into the front door. I know that the moment I look up from dozing off to find him slumped against the closet in the hallway just adjacent to the door, completely on edge.

I know that the moment his eyes meet mine, and his face crumbles into such sadness, such agony, that all I can do is watch.

"Soda," I speak his name gently, but he doesn't look up. "Soda, kid... What––"

"I went and saw him," is all I manage to get out of the drunken slur of words leaving his mouth.

"You went and saw who?"

He scoffs and curses at me. "Who else?"

The image seems to click on his words, and I feel my heart skip a beat. "Oh, Soda..."

"He didn't see me," his small murmurs suddenly rise to a shout, and I cast a glance over my shoulder to see if Pony's standing there. He's not, but it's only a matter of time, so I have to act quickly. "He didn't wanna––"

"It's okay," I coax, trying to get him to quiet down. "Soda, it's okay. I'm sure he was just––"

"You shut up!"

"Soda, it's––"

"It ain't fine!" he screams, and that's when Pony appears at the corner of my vision, staring at the two of us. Staring at me in fear, and also staring at Soda, who cowers like a caged animal.

"Pony," I say harshly, keeping my eye on Soda with my arm outstretched to warn Pony to stay back, "Go back to your room."

"What's wrong with him?" he wonders aloud, and my blood boils beneath my skin.

"Go back to your room."

He steps forward, to which Soda lets out a snarl and I move with him. "Ponyboy Michael," I order, and from what his body language tells me, he knows this could get bad. "Go back to your room––now."

He flees; whether out of fear or exhaustion, I'll never know.

I turn my attention back to Soda. "Hey, hey," I murmur, noticing how he's about to start bawling, "It's okay, Soda... It's okay."

"He didn't wanna see me."

"I know," I'm moving closer as I speak, and I'm suddenly in front of him, taking him in. Taking in the reek of whiskey, the tinge of nicotine, the sharp and bitter look in his eyes as our gazes lock again. "I know."

"Why didn't he wanna?" Soda's voice cracks; the tears start clouding his eyes and then fall onto his jeans as he bows his head. "He was so cold to me, Darry!"

My heart shatters into a thousand little pieces, but even so, I take my hand and wipe a tear from his chin, forcing him to look at me. "I don't know, honey, but I'll figure it out."

"Promise?"

I smile at him, but it's out of sadness. I'm not entirely good at keeping promises.

That's why it surprises me when I say, "I promise."

But for him, for my Soda, I'd do anything.


	10. Chapter 10

**it's literally been like two weeks since this came out and I'm already on chapter ten? what even**

of gunfire and bullet wounds

 _"What's your biggest fear, Soda?"_

 _It was a question I hadn't expected from him. "What do you mean?"_

 _"I mean what's your biggest fear, dipshit."_

 _I snorted, swinging my head back as I downed the last of my shot. "I know, but like... what do you wanna hear?"_

 _Steve rolled his eyes, slapping my shoulder. "Jesus, do you not understand? Tell me something I don't know about you."_

 _"You know everything––"_

 _"Sodapop," he said, sighing my name, "Just shut the hell up and tell me something!"_

 _I thought for a moment. What was I actually afraid of? Well, a lot of things, but Steve knew most of them; that's what happens when you're friends forever, I guess. You learn more about someone, more deeply about someone, than you'd ever thought before._

 _After a moment, I said, "I'm scared of losing everything all over again."_

 _"Sappy as shit," Steve drawled, the clear glimmer of whiskey in his gaze._

 _"I'm serious."_

 _"What kind of everything?"_

 _I shrugged, to which he passed me another shot. "Down the hatch," he muttered, smirking again, and this time I couldn't help but follow his order. I nearly choked as I realized that it was whiskey, but rather liked the burn it gave as it dripped heatedly into my chest, sparking a fire within me._

 _"Scared of losing everything," I repeated rather sluggishly. "Losing everyone."_

 _"Well hell, you're about as mopey as your goddamn brother!" Steve lightly punched my arm. "Lighten up, man; you're not losing anyone."_

 _"War's coming, though, and I––"_

 _"And I nothin', ya hear?" He jabbed a finger in the center of my chest. "You shut up about war talk; at least for right now."_

 _"But what if I don't come back? My last words are gonna be unknown if I die out there and I didn't even get to finish what I was sayin'."_

 _"Jesus, Curtis, you're such a pessimist."_

 _"It's true!"_

 _Steve smirked, rolling his eyes. "True, true. Get it over with, then."_

 _I sighed, downed another whiskey, and sighed into the open air, "I don't wanna not be remembered, ya know?"_

 _Steve snorted, "Believe me, pal. You're gonna be remembered."_

 _"How can you be so sure?"_

 _Steve barked out a laugh. "Because who else would say something like 'I don't wanna not be remembered'?" He looked at me seriously, and through the alcohol, I heard something beautiful come out of his mouth:_

 _"You're gonna be remembered because I'm never gonna let you go. You're gonna come back, Soda, and by God am I gonna make sure you're remembered no matter if you're dead or alive. Because after everything you've done––after everything you've been through––you deserve to be remembered as you were, not as you are about to become: a war soldier."_

God, if only I knew how he feels now.


	11. Chapter 11

**here comes a bucket of feels.**

 **warning: you might cry**

of gunfire and bullet wounds

War means nothing to him anymore. But, at the same time, it means everything.

I hate sitting here, watching him. I hate watching him struggle, watching him deal with it inside of himself, watching him become someone he's never been. It's daunting; terrifying, really.

But despite it, despite everything, we don't push him to talk. Something we probably should do, but don't out of respect for him and in order to not have him lash out again.

"He's gonna be fine," Darry tells me every morning as I leave for school. I've done nothing but walk this entire year; half so that Darry doesn't have to go out of his way to drop me off and half so that I can just think to myself. "He's gonna be okay today."

Today is the word that sticks in my head, like cancer. It sits there, begging to be thought about, to be brought up, to make me weak. It's today; today.

It's never tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. It's always today as if tomorrow will never come. As if our brother, our sensible, kind-hearted brother, is only okay for today. Never tomorrow, never the next day.

Always, undoubtedly, today.

Today sucks ass. I want a tomorrow. I want a yesterday. I want a day before that and a day before that.

I want years before. I want seconds, hours, lifetimes before. I want him to be okay for the rest of his life, not just today.

Every day, I find him standing outside when I walk up the driveway. And every day, the pain shines in his eyes just as brightly as the sun does in mine, and I have to squint in order to see him. I see the emotional baggage he wears like a second skin, like a cloak, and it always brings him to tell me the same thing:

"I'm okay, Ponyboy. I'm okay."

And every time he says that, I cry, and he holds me so tightly, so strongly, that I imagine him in that battlefield, holding someone that same way. I imagine him crying as I always do, imagine him screaming to the heavens as he always does.

And every time, I know he means it. A little more each day, and for today, and all the today's after, I hope that stays.


	12. Chapter 12

**I got very sick this morning at like 1:15 and uhh yeah**

 **this is written in the third person for effect. there shouldn't be too many chapters that are this way except for ones like this.**

of gunfire and bullet wounds

 **pt. 1 of 3**

 _He ducked as a bullet whisked past him, his breathing tight. He could feel the strain of his muscles beneath his gear, beneath the shirt and pants he wore under that, and even in his skin, just beyond the cloth material. To his right, he felt Forbes shift his weight so he was laying on his back, the two of them facing one another, careful not to show himself. A glance not to his right, but straight ahead; he took note of Talen's bright blue eyes staring at his head from the opposite ledge. And, in the corner, completely out of sight lay Gordo, a shadow amongst the dark foliage that concealed him in the woods._

 _He reminded himself to stick close to Talen, should they be split up; she was known for being quite excited when given a gun, which was precisely why she wasn't given one during round up. Of course, much like a girl, she proceeded to whine and banter until they'd had no choice to give her one; what she didn't know, and hopefully wouldn't find out too quickly, was that it wasn't loaded with rounds. The rest of them were loaded with more than they needed to do this job––half of which was her rounds, split into three sections._

 _He swallowed nervously; all he could hope was that this worked, that he hadn't sent all these people to their deaths and that the enemy wouldn't catch on until it was too late. This had to work––the best of the best were on his line, in his attack teams, in his formations. One wrong move and every single one of them could be blown to bits by a bomb or shot in the head too quick to have a final thought. The job was simple: kill the enemy, who happened to be kicking their asses right now. They'd had more artillery, more men than they'd expected._

 _This was going to be rough._

 _He pushed the thoughts out of his mind; they could come later. He had a job to do; he had lives, people, and even his own ass on the line._

 _"You sure this is gonna work?" Forbes whispered harshly beside him. "There's only four of us in this dump, and I don't see you doing much!"_

 _He glanced at Forbes, his most trusted ally, his second-in-command. "It's gonna work," he stated simply, and he hastily continued as Forbes' face started to twist in the beginning of a denial speech. "Trust me." He glanced in front of him and caught sight of the fifth member of their team, bled out and staring at him with cold, dead eyes._

 _He gulped in spite of himself, praying to God that this worked._

 _A glance to Talen; to Gordo; to Forbes. He steadied his shaking hands, calmed his racing heart as he mouthed one word:_

 _"Move."_

 _Together, they moved as one, shooting their guns at the farthest range. He could see people falling through his scope, could hear soldiers crying from below and above him. He heard a body slam behind him and didn't so much as flinch as bones cracked, cries died to silence, and the wet stench of blood reeked in his nose._

 _He could hear Forbes yelling at him from up ahead, and felt Talen's hand snatch the back of his uniform, hauling him away from the smoke and gunfire. Nothing but his own racing heartbeat pounded in his ears, for the rest of the world seemed to be on pause._

 _"Shit," Talen whispered faintly, then her voice rose as she called ahead, "He's shot!"_

 _But they had no excuse but to keep going, for the enemy was already advancing. They raced between trees, weaved around bends, leaping over fallen logs; only the sound of their footsteps and ragged breathing could be heard in the too quiet landscape._

 _And then, suddenly, Talen was taken from his side, her throat being ripped open by a gunshot, and blood––wet, hot, sticky blood––clung to his face, his body, his senses as he continued on, his body screaming in protest._

 _There was nothing he could do, and so he kept going, farther and farther into the heart of the forest._


	13. Chapter 13

**SUPER SORRY FOR THIS BEING SUPER LATE.**

 **With it being the end of my junior year in about two weeks, I have had a project to do for my AP World History class. I've been busy with that along with prepping for finals which are also in two weeks.**

 **Again, so very sorry for the delay, but here we go.**

of gunfire and bullet wounds

I hate lying to him.

Everyone lies every now and then, including me. There was a time where I watched Darry take the blame for Soda when he'd accidentally played too rough with him, and Darry ended up getting some nasty bruises and bumps. He told Mom and Dad he'd fallen when we were running back to the house. There was a time where Soda took the blame for Two-Bit when he came into our house completely drunk, telling Mom and Dad that Two-Bit was a good friend of his rather than an acquaintance, and Mom and Dad had been completely off their rockers. They didn't know him quite yet––not like they came to.

This, however, turned out to be the first and only time I'd ever lied.

"Where's the truck?"

I don't even bother looking up from my homework as I respond to his question. "Dunno. You had it last."

"I did––" he begins to defend himself, but silence falls on the end of his words; I take that as the realization dawning on him and shake my head.

"What's that for?"

I smirk, brushing off his question with a scoff. "Someone clearly isn't thinking with their good side."

"Jesus, Pone," Soda's T-shirt is suddenly at my feet, and his weight shifts the bed as he falls heavily onto his back next to me. "You sound like Dar." He reaches forward, the feel of his palm gruff as it's rubbing into my hair affectionately like Darry used to do to him. "Let's be honest: have I ever had a good side?"

 _Always. You always have. It's been there your whole life until this damn war._

Except something else comes out of my mouth: "Ninety-nine percent of the time."

"What happened to the one percent?"

"Doesn't exist," I murmur, seeing as he's trying to distract me. "Kinda like your sense of humor."

He snorts and shoves me roughly, almost making me fall off the bed. "Shaddup, you little––"

"Soda," Darry's voice calls from the living room. It sounds louder than usual; rougher than usual, like something's made him tense. "Come here."

I watch his head perk up and tilt to the side like a dog. I playfully slap him on the hand and tell him to go, to which he starts to mess with me, trying to get my hands away from his face.

"Soda!" Darry's booming voice makes us stop. "Get your ass in here."

Soda holds his hands up in a temporary surrender, rises from the bed and exits the room, his T-shirt hooked lazily over his shoulder. He doesn't bother to pick it up as it falls to the ground just before he shuts the door, causing a barrier. I dash forward and grab it before he can notice the door, and lightly push it close as his hand leaves the handle.

The only time I'd ever lied to my brother, and God, if only it had had a better outcome.


	14. Chapter 14

**I'm back after taking a break from this.**

 **I hope you enjoy some of the stuff that goes down in this chapter. I really enjoyed writing it, thanks for some motivational music (and the Wonder Woman movie).**

 **I know that No Man's Land was in WWII, but I couldn't help but create another one. Please don't snipe me for that. It fit this scene and chapter so well.**

of gunfire and bullet wounds

 **pt. 2 of 3**

 _No Man's Land._

 _Perhaps the worst possible place to seek shelter in this goddamn war, and yet, that's exactly where Forbes went. Of course, no one bothered to tell him it was in the complete opposite direction of where they needed to go until they were already settled in._

 _The three of them––Forbes, Gordo, and himself––were huddled in between two large rows of ammo. They'd had their guns discarded back when they were running, choosing to go 'commando' as Forbes often referenced, so that the enemy would be stalled by their guns being in their place. The sun beat down on them like a boxer, slugging them with heat and relentless spots floating in their vision from having to look between themselves and the enemy line, about four football fields ahead of them._

 _"We're done for," Gordo whispered hurriedly. The son of a bitch was such a pessimist; it was a wonder how he even got enlisted. "We're absolutely done for."_

 _"Shut up," he said, and Gordo snapped his jaw closed. He grimaced, grunting in pain as he said, "You talkin' like that ain't gonna––"_

 _The last of his sentence never made it out of his mouth, for Forbes had finally managed to grab the bullet between the two prongs of dirty, muddled pliers and was beginning to yank it out of his body. It felt like someone was taking his lung, his heart, and even his brain and shoving it out of a small hole in his left side. The pain was nothing like he'd ever felt, and Forbes' weight rocked against his hips as he fought to get free._

 _"Jesus, Forbes, just get it out already!"_

 _"What in the hell does it look like I'm doing, Gordo?" Forbes hissed sharply, not even looking up at their companion. Finally, the pain subsided to a dull throbbing, and Forbes's voice rang in his ears as though he were really far away. "Okay, okay. I'm done, Curtis, I'm done."_

 _His vision blurred; the world started to sway, and faintly, he felt Gordo's hands running along his body and saw his eyes frantically searching. "He's gonna pass out!"_

 _"No shit, Sherlock," muttered Forbes, as if the ordeal was nothing but business. "He's in shock." He rose and waved his hand for Gordo to follow him, calling over his shoulder, "Let him sleep it off."_

 _But Gordo didn't bother moving until finally, he seemed to gather enough sense to be a soldier and do as he was told._

* * *

 _He woke to find himself surrounded by dead bodies and by the cold earth beneath his skin._

 _"Glad to see you're awake there, Curtis."_

 _He turned his head, his heart racing in his chest. Through the darkness, he couldn't make out a face; and so he tentatively asked, "Who are you?"_

 _"I saved your life. How could you forget that?"_

 _"A lot of people have saved me, actually."_

 _"Then I'm the only one who really matters."_

 _That sarcasm; only one person came to his mind, and clearly, his brother Darry was not here. He shook his head, confusion clearly on his face as he said, "I still don't––"_

 _The voice suddenly had hands––hands that were soft and danced across his skin like flower petals. It then had breath, and the warmth of it brushing along his face made the pieces come together just a little more. It moved with him, coming closer as he got farther away, laughing in humor as he laughed in panic._ _He was about to cry out, about to shriek in terror, when the voice was a set of eyes._

 _A set of eyes so blue, so brown, that they mixed and created a vivacious green. A storm of dark green, like the fronds of a pine tree, that focused on him so intently, so endearingly, that he knew immediately who they belonged to._

 _"Talen," he breathed, and on the sound of her name, she smiled softly. Softly enough that it was barely noticeable, but grew into something more of a grin as she nodded, and that was all he needed. It was all he needed to let his hand reach behind her, feel her hair sliding between his fingers as his hand rested delicately on the back of her neck. It was all he needed to let silence fall between them, and finally, as he whispered her name again, she took all the power that the moment held and gave it a purpose._

 _She moved before him, their eyes still locked, and the press of her lips against his made everything stop. It made everything go on pause, and for as long as the moment existed, she felt alive. Her skin felt just as soft, her hair just as smooth, her lips just as warm and inviting. It made him want to weep, to cry to the heavens and scare her back to life, to bring her back to him._

 _The moment ended too quickly, too soon, too harsh. In not even one second, one heartbeat, she was before him again, except her eyes didn't shine as bright as they had. They shone, yes; brilliantly, but not in the same endearing way._

 _"I didn't die when you saw me fall," she murmured, her hands tight around his as though the memory would make her disappear. "I was a toy; a toy for them. A toy for the enemy to get his vile hands on, to have his fun, to make himself feel pleasure, and then I was cast aside. I was beaten, Curtis. I was bleeding and broken and used for pleasure and then, like a ragdoll, thrown away as if I were nothing."_

 _That was when his eyes downcast to find no hole in her throat; not a scar, not a wound, not a drop of blood._

 _She kissed him once more, her tears falling onto his hands. "I thought of you all day and night in that goddamn camp. I wished for you. I bled and I cried over you, hoping you would come for me. I knew you couldn't for the sake of Forbes, of Gordo, and of yourself. It was your duty as a soldier to leave me."_

 _"I would've––"_

 _"It was your duty, Soda," she said, her voice cracking on his name. "It was only your duty. You were being good; a good boy, a good man, and a good soldier. You left me behind to save yourself, as anyone would have done."_

 _"I wanted to come back––"_

 _She shook her head, and as her gaze met his again, her eyes were clear with acceptance. "But you didn't, and it's okay. You would've suffered the same fate I did had you come back for me." Her hands left him and were coming to his face, resting on his skin as she whispered, "You're good. You're a good boy, a good man, and one hell of a soldier. I'm happy they didn't catch you; that you ran away."_

 _He opened his mouth to say something, to say anything, and nothing reached him._

 _Talen pressed her forehead against_ his, _as if this were a signal of goodbye. "I love you," she whispered, and her body began to fade as did his vision. "You're gonna be okay."_

 _She receded into darkness just as his mind did, and he fell utterly, completely, into the black abyss of nothing._


	15. Chapter 15

**Back, yet again, after a break.**

 **Enjoy!**

of gunfire and bullet wounds

Soda's eyes freeze over the moment they find him.

He's standing at the door, the screen creating a barrier between the cold of outside and the warmth of our house. At the sight of Soda, he throws open the door and steps inside, rain dripping off of his clothes and onto the tile floor. I stand just beside him, ready to throw him out should Soda get angered, or step in front of Soda should he himself react poorly to a situation.

They're both like bombs; ticking, ticking, ticking, waiting to blow, the destruction greater than ever imagined.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Soda asks, and his voice is low, his eyes flickering with malice.

Steve smirks and scoffs under his breath. He holds up his hand; the truck keys dangle from between his thumb and pointer finger, and he lazily tosses them at Soda, who catches them without breaking their stare. "You left these at the DX."

"'Course I did. I remembered."

"You didn't seem too keen on coming back to get them." Steve grunts humorously, and Soda's jaw clenches in anger.

"I would've," he says, his voice hard and his eyes narrowing on his former best friend. "Just not when you were there."

Steve shrugs and turns his back. Soda's eyes flash with hurt as he says, "Guess I'm not needed here, then."

He's about to walk out the door, about to leave Soda behind, when I make a move. I step between Steve and door and, despite him putting up a fight, manage to not move from my place. I grab Steve by the shoulders and turn him to face my brother, whispering fiercely in his ear, "You're gonna sit here and talk it out. Everything goddamn thing, and if he still hates the living shit outta you––as he should––then I'm gonna have to send you on home." I shove him lightly in the direction of Soda, who moves to one side as Steve stumbles and stands upright before him.

The hatred that radiates off of Soda is enough to send me backward. It's in his eyes, smoldering and burning; it's in his body, rigid and tight; it's on his face, cold and dark. It's _everywhere_. Part of me hates Pony for wanting this; part of me hates myself for having this happen when I could very well send Steve on his way and forget about it all.

That wouldn't help Soda. It would only make him worse.

But this very well might make him just as bad.

Together, they move like nothing's wrong. Steve settles on the couch; Soda sits on the arm of the recliner. I lean against the door, rain soaking my back as I glare at each of them and order, "Well, get talking."

At first, nothing is said. They continue to stare at one another, each set of eyes scanning the other's face, trying to read the emotions that hide behind a layer of skin.

Then, as if the words were forced out of him, Soda's voice breaks the quiet. "This is bullshit."

"You're full of shit," Steve grunts. "You know this is what—"

"You remember the night we went to the bar and talked about war?"

Steve stops cold; his eyes flash. "What?"

Soda's voice is full of accusation. "Do you remember that night?"

"I ain't here to—"

" _Do you remember?_ "

"Christ!" Steve shouts in annoyance. He covers his face with one hand. "Yes, I remember."

"You remember when you said you weren't gonna let me go?"

"Of course."

Soda's body slackens. "You let me go. Why?"

Steve suddenly rises to his feet and crosses the room, standing directly in front of Soda, looking as if he's about to start sobbing. Pain blurs out the rest of his hatred, forcing it to melt away as tears fall. "I know I did! I live every day of my goddamn life knowing I left you, left us, left everything! I know, Soda; it hasn't left my mind. Do you know how hard it was to leave you that night?"

"Didn't––"

"It was the hardest fucking thing I've ever done, Soda. I left you that night after we went out to the bar, drunk as a sailor, and I never looked back. God, Soda... It hurt, and you might not believe it, but I hated myself for not looking back. I cried when I got home that night––bawled like a baby, because I couldn't process the shit you told me. I didn't want to process it; I couldn't.

We enlisted at the same time, with the same hope: that neither of us would get picked, remember? And...and then you get a letter, and I didn't, and I'll be damned if I didn't go into that damn enlistment office and demand to replace you. I knew you had a family; brothers, even, to watch over, even though one of them can take care of himself. You have a family, Soda; I have no one. But they told me no regardless, and so I was forced out of there, screamin' and cryin', and sent home. I had to watch you grow up fast when your parents died; I had to watch you grow up even faster when you got that letter. You ain't got any idea how badly I wanted to beat the sense outta you when you started to accept the fact you might even die out there.

The news rolled the daily death count, and every morning"––he motioned to me with his head, and Soda glanced back at me––"I would come here and sit with Dar and Ponyboy, just hoping that you weren't gonna be named. Thank God you weren't. Thank God..." he trails off, staring at Soda hopelessly, his eyes pleading for my brother to understand.

And then Soda's spewing words and sentences out of his mouth not a moment later, and everything that comes out is brewing with memories. "Two-hundred and forty days I was in there, Steve. Two-hundred and forty days of watching people die, seeing light fade from their eyes––eyes once so beautiful with the pride of fighting for their country––and hearing their last words. Nothing is more painful to watch than someone dying, Steve; nothing is more gruesome. I had friends in there! I had friends who died in my arms! I can't ever get that out of my head. I prayed for death; I swear to God I did. I wished that I would die, or somehow get the courage to kill myself, so that I wouldn't have to wake up yet another day and wonder if I was gonna get shot or captured.

It was hell. I thought of home every day; I thought of you every day. I thought of how we always said we were gonna go home together, and God, Steve... was that ever the biggest letdown I've ever had in my entire life. You didn't go home with me that day! You left me and you didn't even turn around to see me before I left for war. You turned your back and left!

The end of the line, Steve! The end of the goddamn line, you promised me!"

"I know I did!" Steve cried, "How would I go on if I lost you, Soda? How the hell could I go on knowing my best friend died on a battlefield and I wasn't there to be with him? How could I go on knowing that I didn't go to the end with you?" His voice cracks, and as I look up, I see that they're both sobbing and screaming at one another. But it's not in anger; it's in pain.

He doesn't have any words left, and so he does the one thing they're both wanting, but neither will step up and do until now. Letting a saddened whimper fall from his lips, Soda pulls Steve to him and completely breaks down.

"I came home," Soda's voice is muffled by Steve's shoulder, and I watch as Steve blinks tears away from his eyes.

"I know," he says, and his eyes lock with mine. "Thank God you did."


	16. Chapter 16

**This is it. This is the end.**

 **I am so proud of this work. I'm so proud of what I have written in the last, what, two months? It's been a wild ride, and an emotional one at that, but this ends on such a good note that I couldn't continue it any longer than this point.**

 **Maybe someday I will write an epilog or something, but until that day comes, this is the end of the road.**

of gunfire and bullet wounds

 **pt. 3 of 3**

 _"Give it up, man," Gordo sighed heavily into the open night, though his voice was soft. "This isn't working."_

 _"It's gonna work."_

 _"We've been sitting here for what, two days?" Gordo shifted his weight to lay on his side. "Let it go."_

 _"She's not there, Curtis."_

 _At the sound of Forbes' voice, he stiffened. "She's there––"_

 _Gordo huffed in exasperation. Forbes' gaze settled on his, completely at odds between his own feelings and those of his commanding officer. "How do you know?" Gordo suddenly asked._

 _"I just know," he said, and Gordo grunted in frustration. "I ain't lying!"_

 _"Then why the hell aren't you down there?"_

 _It wasn't a question meant to be offending, but being the situation at hand––being the cold, the hunger, the aggravation at himself for making the three of them come all the way to enemy lines just to see if the one he loved was actually alive––he took it all too personally. The anger boiled beneath him, seeming to replace the blood that pumped through his veins, and all of a sudden he was looming over Gordo with their faces just inches of one another._

 _"Because," he snarled, and fear sparked in Gordo's eyes, "I don't exactly have the fastest moving team in the whole goddamn world."_

 _"Then let's go."_

 _He looked up at Forbes, finding the man––who stood short of six feet tall––on his feet, strapping his gear on. "What?"_

 _"I said let's go," he stated again as their gazes met. Blue met dark brown; shock resonated in both sets of eyes. "Before we're all down in the ditch with her."_

* * *

 _The entire camp was deserted._

 _It was as if no one had settled there and, for a moment, that's exactly what they all thought. There was no way this place was used as a camp; most of their housing units were torn down, built out of logs and branches and even leaves. Not an imprint was made in the mud that led out somewhere else like the enemy knew that they were going to be here. There was nothing here to show any sign of life._

 _But when a scream came from the far end of the camp, startling all three men out of what happened to be a trance, something inside of him turned in on itself._

 _It was because of this something that he rushed towards the sound, Forbes and Gordo screaming at him to stop. It was because of this something that he leaped over logs, pushed through leaves and debris, and even threw off his gear in order to run faster. It was because of this something that he found himself in the middle of one of the seemingly intact housing units, his breathing catching in his throat at the sight before him._

 _A woman; a man. An act of cruelty, though it should've been pleasure. A quick and painless jolt from the woman, her face contracted in agony, in sickness, in disgust with herself and her perpetrator, and then the man rose from above her with a satisfied purr coming from his body._

 _That something inside of him finally let itself be known as he threw himself at the other man. Though the man was older, he could still throw good punches, and so the two of them grappled for a moment or two before he got the upper hand. He tackled the older man to the ground, knowing not what he was doing, and snapped his neck with an echoing crack that reached his bones._

 _He finally looked to the woman, finding her slowly collecting herself and her clothing. He rose, wiping the blood onto his army pants as he tried to step around her, but she grabbed his ankle and forced him to stop, to look back at her with pity and realize who, exactly, he was looking at._

 _The pain was all that resonated in her eyes, and when she blinked, that pain fell from her eyes in tears. "Don't," she said, her voice ragged. "Don't leave me here."_

 _He dropped to his knees beside her and pulled her hair back to tuck it behind her ear, and that was when he saw it. He saw the unspoken words floating inside of her head, inside of her eyes, and his heart sank beneath the floor and fell to the pit of the Earth as he pulled her to him, her tears once again falling onto his hands and his face._

 _"I won't," he murmured against her skin, against the coldness of her body colliding with the warmth of his, against all that was about to come down on them in mere seconds as he heard people coming. "Not ever again."_

 _And then her body was replaced with a gun bearing down on his chest, and her cries became nothing as he was hauled away._

* * *

 _For the remaining two hundred and forty days, he lay in hunger. He lay in cold. He lay in the wet and the dirt and his own body fluid._

 _He lay sheltered from the rest of them, and for every move made, a guard was whipping his head around and staring at him with cold, dead, defying eyes. Where Forbes and Gordo were allowed out of their "prisons" for only a half hour each day, he remained in his corner, reeking of feces and mud and sweat. At one point he stopped caring about water, stopped caring about where he did his business, and even stopped caring about his looks; there was nothing for him here._

 _Nothing for those two hundred and forty days._

 _And on the ninetieth day, after scarfing down what small portions of leftovers he actually could stomach, they took him out into the light and chained him, feet and hands and even his neck, to a wooden pole._

 _And on that day, in the hot white sun and before the dead-eyes civilians, he was lashed and beaten and thrown to the ground in such ways no man could ever imagine. He was thrown from all sorts of angles; punched in all sorts of places; dropped from all sorts of heights._

 _Talen was housed with the commander, where he could keep her locked in place as she watched them beat the only man she ever loved, watched them starve him until he was nothing but bones and a small, patching layer of skin. She could only stand and watch, the commander's eyes always on her, as he was dragged back to his unit each day getting weaker and weaker. Finally, on the ninetieth day, he was dragged away without any sort of fight left in him._

 _She snuck away each night to bring him something; anything she could round up. Each night, the stakes of her and of them getting caught together rose, but neither of them cared. Maybe he was too ready to die, or maybe she was too foolish and naive; either way, they cherished their time with one another, for it could always be their last._

 _"They're going to kill me."_

 _"I won't let them do that."_

 _"They'd have your head before you could even speak."_

 _"To hell with them and their goddamn head-slaying. I'm not afraid of what happens to me."_

 _"But you'd die for what they'll do to me?"_

 _"Yes," she said, and he looked at her, his dark brown eyes almost black in the small candlelight that dully lit the space._

 _"You're crazy, Talen––"_

 _"I might be," she cut him off, "But I'm also tough as shit and completely in love with you."_

 _His eyes flickered in pain; in defeat, and, like the good soldier––the good boy––he was, he didn't argue with her. "You are tough as shit."_

 _"Damn straight."_

 _For a moment, it seemed like the conversation had veered from the impending death that awaited him. But then, his face fell, his eyes overcast, and his voice got soft. "I don't––"_

 _She stopped him cold by climbing into his lap and kissing him wherever there was skin. "I want you to shut up about this sappy shit and get to the part where we have one last hoorah; one big 'fuck you' to these sons-a-bitches."_

 _It wasn't long before the entirety of him was with her, completely, utterly, wholly, for one last hoorah. For one final moment, for one final time, and God, the fire that exploded inside of her was nothing she'd ever felt. She felt the heat flowing through her, taking her over, and she allowed herself to fall deeply into the pits and cracks of the scorching blaze, feeling––_

 _And then all of a sudden, that fire turned into water, and she drowned with him in that colliding storm of heat and cool, of love and hate, of everything and nothing, for one final time._

* * *

 _On the ninety-ninth day, they stood before one another, him having to be held by two officers, while she stood on her own._

 _Today was his final day of life, and he was_ happy _about it._

 _She had come to him that final evening together, and all he did was hold her as she sobbed against his skin. Nothing came over him; not grief, not anger, not humanity. He felt numb, completely shut off, his mind succumbing to itself and the dark thoughts that clouded his sleep._

 _Only now, as they stood on the same land but on two completely different sides, he felt everything._

 _And so when she looked him straight in the eye, a tear falling onto her skin, all he wanted to do was brush it away. He wanted nothing more than to hold her one last time, to feel her one last time, to kiss her and love her and be with her..._

 _She raised the gun to his chest with a shaking hand, and behind her, the commander smiled ruefully._

 _He closed his eyes, waiting for the bullet to strike against him. And it was only when the bullet cried through the morning air but did not penetrate his body that he opened his eyes to find her lying on the ground with her blood pooling at his feet._

* * *

I remember nothing but falling to my knees and cradling her against my body for what felt like barely any time in the world.

I remember praying to God that he take me with her. I remember wanting nothing more than death; not to die, but to just see her and feel her and love her for all the days of my life again.

We were liberated from that shithole at two hundred and eighty days. They swarmed in like a pack of wolves, took all three of us, gave us clothes and food and warmth and anything else we needed, and then we were shipped out home again.

Coming home was both the best and worst part. I got to come home to my brothers; my own flesh and blood. I got to come home to Tulsa, to my actual home and felt even more alive than ever. I also came home to nightmares, to shakes, to an eventual diagnosis of PTSD, and seeing the one I loved be lowered six feet into the ground with the flag of the country she called home for nineteen years on top of her casket.

But despite that, I came home. I came home to see both of my brothers and even my friends find love. I came home to them and to watch Pony graduate high school. I came home to everything I could've asked for.

* * *

 **Five Years Later**

It's the small pitter-patter of his feet falling on the floor that wakes me.

And I know why he's now climbing into the bed and sitting on my torso, shivering despite the hot Tulsa heat. I know why he's come to me at one in the morning, but I don't ever ask, for I'm scared he'll want to know too much at one time and I won't be able to give it all to him.

But despite my best efforts, the words fall into the night: "What's got you in here so late?"

"They're in my room again."

"They?"

"Mhm," he murmurs, his voice soft as any child would be. "Monsters."

I place my hand beneath his chin and force him to meet my eyes, where I raise an eyebrow in a joking manner. "You can't be serious. Monsters are in there?"

"Mhm." His voice shakes and his bottom lip trembles in fear. His eyes start to water, and I know that this can go two ways, and most of the time, it goes just like this.

"Don't bother with 'em. Just show those things who's boss, you hear?"

He doesn't respond for quite some time, and I'm certain he's asleep. But then, like an animal coming out from hiding, he comes back. "Like you did when you fought those bad guys?"

I smile at him fondly, proudly, and rest him against my chest with one of my hands stroking through his hair. "Exactly like that."

He sighs in something like content at my words, and within moments, he's out like a light. And it's within this moment of consciousness and sleep that I whisper to the sleeping body before me, "Goodnight, my little soldier."

And then, after a while, before sleep can claim me:

"Goodnight, my little Talonbird."

* * *

 **Thank you.**

 **\- Sunny**


End file.
